


Ain't That a Kick in the Head

by ossapher



Series: The Macaroniverse -- Lams Modern AU [7]
Category: American Revolution RPF
Genre: M/M, pre-Lams, pretty angsty tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 11:11:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5741572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ossapher/pseuds/ossapher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John gets a call at 3 a.m. on New Years' Day telling him to come fetch Alex. </p><p>a.k.a. how Alex came into possession of John's best coat.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ain't That a Kick in the Head

**Author's Note:**

> If you're going by the John Laurens headcanons, this takes place after John drops out of law school, but before he decides to become an EMT, also known as the horrible limbo period when he was struggling with depression. 
> 
> Warnings for depression, pervasive strong language, homophobic and sexist slurs, and prejudice against people with H.I.V. There's also distant Henry Laurens, so let's go with emotionally abusive parenting as well.
> 
> I am not is/r/a/a and did not know her. She has deleted her ao3. This fic was written before hers. I have never represented myself as having any medical conditions I do not have. I have never solicited donations based on my work.
> 
> Many thanks to tumblr user ackamarackuss for help with the dialogue!

John is on his fifth hour of mindlessly letting YouTube videos autoplay in his field of vision when his phone rings.

"Hi."

"I need you at seventy-first and Q in ten minutes or less, can you make it?"

John looks befuddledly at the clock on his computer. It's 2:47 a.m., technically New Year’s Day, and he doesn't know this woman.

"You have the wrong number."

"You're John Laurens. I need you to come pick up Alex Hamilton and bring him home. He says... what? He says he needs you to bring the gloves that are... what? Under the kitchen sink."

A stranger—a phone call in the middle of the night—a demand for help—a deadline: John's pulse is racing. He makes a split-second decision. “On my way.”

The only gloves he can find under the kitchen sink are blue stretchy medical ones. He stuffs a couple in his pocket, pulls on winter boots and his black coat, and rushes out the door. He and Alex live only a couple blocks away from a Radisson, and he jogs over there and steals a cab.

On the way he tries calling the mysterious number, but she’s on the line with someone else, whoever she is. He also realizes that he doesn't know where the hell he's going, other than 71st and Q, but he doesn't quite care. He feels like he’s been jolted awake, purposeful and self-assured: emotions that have been totally foreign to his experience ever since he read that fucking email last week. Maybe this is what he needs in his life now that he’s not in school: a voice in the night telling him _be here, do this_.

They arrive and he hands the cab driver a $20. There's a warehouse across the street, the muted sound of bass audible outside. He moves closer. He doesn’t remember hearing music in the background of the phone call, so the owner of the mysterious voice probably wasn’t inside…

He spots someone under a streetlight: a short black woman with a ferocious scowl on her face, tapping her foot and glaring around. Some audacious shitbag has dared to keep her waiting.

“Uh, hi,” John says, walking up cautiously, because he feels like he’s the shitbag, “are you…”

"You're John," the woman says. She’s wearing neon blue eyeshadow and bright peach lipstick, but she’s got a handshake that would make John’s dad weak in the knees. "I'm Angelica." She raises her phone and says, “Please, just circle the block one more time. The guy’s here, I promise this is the last.”

"Where’s Alex?" John says, because clearly there is some time pressure. Angelica glances over her shoulder, and John's eyes fall on a slight figure in something like the fetal position on the sidewalk, head wrapped in a bloodstained gray jacket—Alex’s jacket. "Shit, Alex, are you—"

"Five feet back!" Alex cries, thrusting out a warning finger, as John rushes over.

"I—what?"

“He keeps saying that,” Angelica says.

“Because you gotta stay five feet back!” Alex turns his head slightly, putting John into his field of vision. "Hi, John. Sorry I didn't call. Phone's fucked."

"What happened?" John turns to Angelica.

"I don't know. We came out and he was already like this. Look, I'm sorry. Normally I'm not the type to leave when there's trouble, but my sisters need me."

"Your sisters..." John looks around. There's two more women, talking among themselves. One has her arms around the other.

"It’s Eliza’s first time at a club and this one guy was just being a pushy _jackass_ and Alex wanted to fight him so I had to drag them apart and then someone tried to slip something into Peggy's drink and the manager didn’t believe us when we reported him so I kneed the guy in the balls, but it turns out he was friends with the manager, so he threw us out, so yeah, it’s been a night. And now I'm taking them away from this shitshow." Angelica's phone rings. She picks up. "Hello, yes, we're ready now, if you could—" She turns away from John, beckoning with her free hand to her sisters. One of them is in a sleeveless dress, her jacket apparently lost, and the other’s thrown her coat half around her shoulders. They walk like they’re attached at the hip, and John has just a moment to think how oddly… hopeful? wistful? the image makes him before they’ve disappeared into the car.

"How am I supposed to get him home?" John protests weakly, but Angelica is already climbing into the passenger seat, and doesn’t hear him. The car pulls away.

"You're not 'getting me home’" Alex slurs. "I’m not so fucked up somebody else’s gotta get me home."

“Sure. What happened to your head? Do you need a doctor?”

“I’m drunk, not concussed.”

“That doesn’t answer the question of what happened to your head.”

“Hit it.”

“On…?”

“The ground.”

“Because…?”

“Unimportant.”

John sighs. “Will you let me have a look?”

“Oh, sure, ‘cuz you’re a goddamn medical expert.”

“I was an Eagle Scout.”

“I was an Eagle Scout,” Alex mimics, in what seems, inexplicably, to be a Mickey Mouse impersonation. “Did you bring the gloves?”

"Yes, but I don't see why..."

"I have H.I.V.," Alex says bluntly.

"Oh."

"Like I said, five feet back. Or if you’re coming close, gloves. You don’t want me on your hands."

John’s stomach twists. He feels like he should have reacted better, like that hollow little “oh,” is going to forever color how Alex thinks of him. But he doesn’t really know how to apologize, either.

“I’m--I’m sorry, man…”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’ll take care of me, 'kay? It’s just a little cut on the back of my head. Looks worse than it is.”

“Are you applying direct pressure?”

“What’s it look like?” Alex has braced his head on one bent knee, fingers laced together behind his head, pressing the jacket firmly in place. The jacket is thoroughly ruined; John can see the line of spots where Alex has been adjusting its position when the blood soaks through.

“Is it slowing down?” John asks. “Should we take you to the hospital?”

“Almost stopped. Gimme like, five minutes.”

"I'll call a cab or an Uber or something."

"Nobody’ll take me looking like this. Better a bus."

"Buses aren't running. It's way after midnight. Don't you have anything warm?" Alex is wearing a thin t-shirt and jeans. He’s already shivering.

Alex snorts. “You mean, other than my jacket? I had five, no, six shots, I'm not cold."

"Bullshit. You feel warm, but you get cold faster when you're drunk." Thank you, _Survivorman_ , for all you have taught me. “Losing blood is also not helpful in that area. And neither is sitting on cold cement. Can you stand?”

“‘Course I can stand,” Alex says, staggering a little as he rises, keeping his hands secure on the makeshift bandage. John steps closer, thinking to steady him, and he glares. “Leg fell asleep. Five feet away, John. Five. Feet.”

John moves closer. “HIV’s not the fucking measles, Alex, I won’t catch it from—”

“ _Stay away from me_.”

John steps smartly back, because Alex’s voice has an edge to it he’s never heard before, something approaching either fury or terror. “Okay, okay,” he says, hands up. “I’ve got the gloves, do you want me to put the gloves on? I’ll put the gloves on.”

Alex doesn’t budge, his arms rigid and his jaw clenched. When John dons the blue neoprene gloves he visibly relaxes. “We should walk back,” he says.

“Walk? I mean, I guess it’s only three or four miles, but it’s cold as balls out here, Alex, are you sure—”

“We don’t have another choice.”

John sighs. “Okay, but you should take my coat.”

“No.”

“Yes. It’s either that or go back in the club to stay warm and wait until I can call us a cab.”

“It’s New Years’, we’ll be waiting ‘til the sun’s up. And then when they get here, they won’t _take us_ because my _head_ is—”

“Fine, we’ll compromise. We walk home, you take my coat. Deal?”

“I’m not gonna let you _freeze_ just ‘cuz I got into some stupid fight.”

“Alex, so help me, if you don’t take my coat, I’m gonna take it off anyway in protest.”

Alex rolls his eyes, turns, and strides away, one arm clamped against his chest in an effort to save heat, one still holding the jacket to his head. John catches up, unbuttoning his coat as he goes.

“I’m fucking serious, Alex, I’m not wearing this thing.” John tries not to gasp as he shrugs out of the arms, cold wind knifing through the sweatshirt he’s wearing underneath. He’s carried it for maybe three blocks when he realizes he can see Alex shivering. “Come on, man, it’s only fair. I’ve got a sweatshirt with long sleeves underneath and you’re dressed like it’s 70 outside.”

“‘Don’t wanna g-get b-b-blood on it.”

“Um, A, it’s black, B, I don’t give a fuck.”

“B-but I— you might—”

“Alex, it’s a coat, not a fucking hypodermic needle. Stop walking for a sec. Just stop.”

Alex stops.

“I’m gonna hold it up and you’re gonna put your arm in the sleeve.”

Alex obeys, moving slowly, deliberately avoiding any possible contact with John.

“Good. Other arm.” The back of Alex’s neck is streaked with dried blood, and he flinches as John straightens the coat. “Alex, relax. I’m wearing the gloves, remember?”

Alex exhales. “You’re wearing the gloves,” he repeats. The cold has sobered him up quite a bit. “Shit, this thing’s warm.”

He fumbles at the buttons, fingers clumsy with cold, and John says, “Do you want me to—” but Alex glares and does up the coat himself. “It looks good,” says John, before he can help himself, and Alex smirks faintly. It’s his first hint of a smile all night, and John feels warmer just looking at him.

“Hell y-yeah it does.”

They’ve been walking in silence for maybe ten minutes before Alex speaks again, starting like he’s picking up in the middle of a conversation. “So I’m in sixth grade P.E., right, and we’re playing soccer outside, and I’ve got the ball, and I’m dribbling it up the left side, and this girl, she was on the soccer team, she slide tackles me, just takes me to the dirt. And this is during the drought, right, so of course the ground is like concrete with some grass in it, really gravelly, and it tore up my leg pretty good.

“And I just remember how the teacher’s eyes went wide when she saw. She made everybody else stop playing, but she wouldn’t let me leave the field. She called the nurse to deal with it, actually. I had to just sit there on the ground bleeding until the nurse could come out. But she was wearing these gloves, so she was okay. Safe, I mean. From my blood. But the P.E. teacher had stopped the game, just made everybody line up on the sidewalk, so they all just sat around and… watched, I guess, while the nurse patched my leg up.

“And that was really when all the shit started about it. Alex is a faggot, Alex’s mom was a whore, don’t touch Alex, he’ll give you A.I.D.S., that kinda stuff. They really knew I was different after that.”

“Jesus.” John has zero idea what to say. “Your teacher was an idiot.”

“Was she, though? What if she’d had a cut on her hand and tried to take care of me and gotten infected? Back then, my viral load was still sky high. Coming down, you know, but… it was bad.”

John doesn’t know how to answer that. Alex barrels on. “This one time, in chemistry, I sliced my hand on some broken glass and my lab partner started crying because she thought she’d get sick. Or once, I got the flu and everyone avoided me for weeks because they thought I’d give them, like, the super-flu.”

“Okay, _that’s_ idiots.”

“Is that supposed to be a comfort, that they’re idiots? I mean, if the whole world’s full of idiots who treat me like shit, should I be consoled by the fact that they’re only treating me like shit because they’re idiots?”

John doesn’t have an answer for that, either.

“Or like, just now, with this”--Alex gestures vaguely towards his own head-- “this was some guy who was really into me back at the club, so he says, let’s go outside, so we do, and we make out for a while, and then he asks if he can give me a blowjob and I say, yeah, great, but I’ve got well-controlled HIV so maybe if you have any, like, open cuts in your mouth that’s a bad idea without protection, and the guy fucking _knocks me down_ and then just _runs off_ , and I don’t even—I mean, it wasn’t like I was trying to _seduce_ him or anything, I mean, _he_ asked _me_ , but I mean, he just fucking _panicked_ and I’m, I’m angry, but I also sort of _understand—_ ”

“You understand him because you can empathize with others, but that doesn’t mean he was right to do what he did,” John says, because _you like men?_ seems inappropriate in the present context. “Jesus, Alex, that was a fucking hate crime!”

Alex chuckles. “John, I’m sorry, but you were a shit law student.”

“Are you saying it’s _not_?”

“By the federal definition, hate crimes are motivated by race, religion, sexual orientation, disability, or ethnic origin.”

“Well, the federal definition’s wrong! It should just be a crime motivated by--by the victim being a member of any group the attacker doesn’t like.”

“Any group?” Alex repeats, eyebrows going up, “Any group, really? If I don’t like, I dunno, One Direction, and I attack someone because they’re wearing a One Direction t-shirt, am I committing a hate crime?”

“Oh, come on, you know I didn’t mean it like that—”

They pass the rest of the walk back in a heated debate over how to define a hate crime, arriving back at their apartment as the sky to the east is starting to turn deep blue rather than black. Once they’re inside, the dull gray feeling John had before the phone call starts to creep back in. It’s like his brain knows— he’s no longer _on a mission_ , no longer fighting to save somebody else, and suddenly John is just… bored. He takes off the gloves mechanically, drops them in the kitchen trash.

Alex takes off the black coat. “Keep it,” John says. “I’ve got another.”

For a moment, Alex looks shocked, and then he turns bright red. “Oh. Okay,” he says, in a strangled voice, turning to trudge off to his room, and John realizes Alex thinks he doesn’t want it back, that he lied when he said the blood wouldn’t bother him, that now John is treating the coat as contaminated--is treating _Alex_ as contaminated.

“Wait, Alex—it’s not like that,” John says.

Alex looks up, eyes resigned. “It’s okay, John. I get it.”

“No, really, I just—I just want to help you.” Because John’s only ever seen Alex wearing that old, faded gray jacket, even when it’s absolutely frigid out, and now he’s thinking that maybe that was the only jacket Alex had.

“Oh, so this is a charity coat now?” Alex snarls, eyes flashing.

“No, no, I just—” Great, first he made Alex sad, then he made him angry; is there anything John _can’t_ fuck up?

“I’m your fucking roommate, John, we both pay the same rent and I don’t need your—”

“ _Please,_ ” John says, except instead of the neutral tone he was going for it comes out as a half-broken plea. “I just need to be useful to somebody right now, I need to do something _right_ , please, just take the fucking coat,” and okay that was _way_ too much honesty. He swallows, hard, and squeezes his burning eyes shut.

For a moment, Alex says nothing, and John stands in the doorway, waiting for him to throw the coat in his face. Then, he says, “Thank you very much for the coat. I’ve been told it looks good on me, and it’s”—he clears his throat—“it’s far and away the warmest thing I’ve ever owned.”

“You’re welcome,” John says over the knot in his throat. He bows his head, thinking _thank you, God, and thank you, Alex_ . He looks up, because Alex has come closer. Not, like, _close_ -close, but definitely inwards of five feet.

“Dropping out—you’re really upset about it, aren’t you?”

“You could say that.”

“If it was a problem with your grades, I—I could tutor you…”

John smiles ruefully, shaking his head. “Definition of a hate crime notwithstanding, I got straight Bs last semester.”

“Then why—”

“No offense, but I hate law, and I couldn’t pretend to like it anymore.” He takes a deep breath, but it’s only fair, since Alex has been spilling secret after secret tonight. “In other news, my dad has disowned me. Sent me an email saying he could console himself with the memory that he once had a son.”

Alex shakes his head, and John recognizes his own feeling from earlier that night: _shit, that sucks, what do I say?_

“Well, John,” Alex sighs, “For what it’s worth, you’re dad’s a fucking idiot.”


End file.
